The heavy air of the ruined temple pressed in as the adventurers stood amid broken stone and faded sigils. Having dispatched the kobold sentries, the silence that followed was not relief—it was expectation. Something deeper still waited in the dark.
In the entryway, a magical painting shimmered faintly—a preserved image of The Sanctum of the Evercurrent, said to lie along the cliffs of Brightwater, a place of Lord Myrtix, god of magic. Whether any still worshipped him there now was unclear… but here, in this ruin, his memory lingered.
As the party took their first real breath since meeting Akiro, they asked him to examine two scrolls found the previous day in the alchemical lab. One was a sermon—likely undelivered—by the former high priest, Thalor Arboleas. It spoke not of conquest or power, but of truth beyond death, of piercing the veil for understanding, not dominion. The last line remained unfinished. Perhaps the scribe had been interrupted. Or silenced.
The second scroll was far more disturbing: a detailed ritual for raising the dead. “The Flesh Remembers,” it claimed. The instructions were precise—ritual blood, whispered names, ash and bile ink… and madness. “The eyes! They do not forget! They do not forgive!”
Once rested, they turned not toward the room Zax insisted held “the boss,” but instead to a rusted gate leading out into the temple’s overgrown garden. Akiro melted the lock with acid, and Thokein Tuskhand of the Huldrask stepped through first.
The garden had become a place reclaimed by time. Waist-high grass. Crumbling stone. Wild vines. And at the center, a statue of a serene woman, smiling faintly, wand in one hand and book in the other.
Aragon, ever watchful, uncovered something hidden in the overgrowth: an old sacrificial altar. Forgotten by time, but not by memory. As the group approached, the air grew still. Then—a few whispers on the wind:
“Blood is the key.”
"He fled, but we did not."
"They called it justice. Do you?"
Thokein Tuskhand of the Huldrask, moved by instinct, cut his palm and let the blood drip into the offering bowl.
He suddenly had a vision, an out of body experience, and the world changed.
Suddenly, the ruin was whole again. The torches burned. The air filled with screams and the iron tang of blood. Thokein—no, someone else—stood in the temple as armored paladins of Lord Forneth stormed in. Their blades did not pause for pleas. They did not seek justice—they sought silence.
One priest, bleeding and gasping, cried out:
“You call this righteousness?! Do you not feel it?!”
And the paladin answered: “We feel it. And we will carry it with us to the end.”
They slaughtered everyone. Then, when their work was done, they rode to the Thornshadow Bluffs, a series of craggy cliffs, and climbed the highest...
One by one, they stepped forward, and leapt to their deaths.
No screams. No hesitation.
They fall into the abyss—and Thokein fell with them.
And awoke.
The ruin had returned. But something was different now. The altar no longer whispered. It had spoken—and its truth had cut deep.
After sharing what he saw, the party returned to the statue. Only then did they notice the hidden panel beneath the creeping grass and vines. The name carved into the base read:
"High Arcanist Velmira, First Keeper of the Elemental Codex."
As they examined further, they uncovered faint arcane markings woven into her robes—deliberate, intricate, hidden in plain sight. They couldn’t decode them, but Akiro took charcoal rubbings of the symbols and the runes within the stone book she held. Velmira had left something behind—something meant for those who could see.
At last, they turned toward the eastern wing—where Zax claimed the boss waited. When asked how many kobolds remained, Zax cheerfully held up eight fingers… and said "four" again.
The group stepped cautiously into the decaying chambers. A ruined bed. A rickety desk. A half-eaten bird carcass, still warm. Something else was here.
Digging through the old robes and rubble, they uncovered a scrap of parchment:
“Thalor has lost his mind. He will be the death of us all.”
Who Thalor was—or had become—was unclear.
Through the next door, they entered the old sanctuary. An altar to Lord Myrtix stood cracked and bloodstained. Broken stained glass hung like skeletal ribs. Five kobolds hissed in alarm, drawing weapons. At their center: a towering bugbear, his morningstar slick with old blood.
Battle erupted.
Kobolds launched glowing blue shardstones from slings—explosives crackling with raw force. One kobold, perhaps too eager, detonated his entire pouch and was instantly reduced to a smear.
Thokein became a dire wolf. Akiro locked the bugbear in magical paralysis. Aragon drove his blade deep. Even Zax—surprising everyone—revealed himself as a true cleric of Lord Wundreld, calling down divine magic and healing Thokein with surprising conviction.
Then, another door burst open near the altar. Ixit, the kobold leader, arrived, he scrambled to activate traps he'd set in desperation. The party pressed in, overwhelming him before he could flee.
Slain, Ixit's body fell near the ornate carpet in the master chamber. Inside, along the far wall, they discovered a magical portal still swirling with energy. Through it, they saw the ruined lab—proof lab that they had been in earlier. Clearly, this escape route had been prepared in advance.
Near the edge of the carpet, a note still warm with recent touch lay crumpled. Its contents chilled them:
“You have found Arboleas' formula by now, yes? For your sake, I do hope so… There should be no unexpected eyes or hands where they do not belong…”
Whoever had written it had power. And expectations. And zero patience for failure.
Ixit had not simply been ruling the kobolds. He had been working for someone else. And he had failed them.
The temple fell silent once more. The dead lay still. The portal hummed quietly in the background. And the party, bloodied but victorious, took their rest—surrounded by ghosts, truths, and the echo of burning prayers.